Exouthenismos (ex-ou-then-is’-mos): An expression of contempt.
“I hate you! You are a disgrace! You stink! You are lazy! You are terrible! You disgust me! You are like a dog butt worm. I’m leaving!”
This altercation changed my life forever. I was 16. My mother made me French toast and scrambled eggs every Saturday morning. Then, out of nowhere, one Saturday she told me she wasn’t going to make the French toast and eggs any more—not on Saturday, not on any day. She told me I was old enough to cook my own breakfast. She told me she was getting arthritis in her spatula wrist, and it was painful to make the eggs and French toast. I called her a dirty liar and went upstairs to pack my bags. I was leaving home.
I emptied my piggy bank: $5.28. I tromped down the stairs to the living room where my parents were hanging out. Dad was reading the newspaper and mom was staring at the wall. I told them I was leaving. Dad said, “Good. You’re nothing but a pain in the ass.” Mom was staring at the wall, sobbing and saying “My son,” over and over. I told her she didn’t have a son any more, and walked out the door. I could hear my father yelling at my mother to shut up, as I walked down the sidewalk.
I worked for a year selling candy at Yankee Stadium. I got good at throwing the candy, but I had to walk to the customer to get their money. One day, I was working the punters along the third base line. Casey Stengel popped up and ordered a candy bar. I threw hm one. He said “Wow, that was a hell of a pitch. You’re just in time—I’m out of pitchers—they’re all injured, and my last one just sprained his shoulder.” I agreed to do it. I suited up and headed out to the mound. With me pitching, the Yankees suffered the biggest loss in their history, and in the history of baseball. Boston: 106. New York: 7. Casey paid me $200.00 and took me to Port Authority. Luckily nobody recognized me as I boarded the bus, or I would’ve been killed.
I had just turned 17 and I wanted to join the Army so I could take advantage of the veterans benefit of a college education after I served my three years. So, I served three years as a jeep driver for the commanding officer of Ft. Dix, New Jersey. He was a maniac. We spent most of our time running wild in Philadelphia. He had two wives there and a used/stolen car business. Eventually I had to testify at his courrmartial where I buried him. Two days later I was discharged. I had already applied to colleges, so I knew where I was going: Stanford. I had taken out a loan for $2,000 to pay the bribe to the the Office of Admissions.
I loved my classes. I had a book “Cheaters Prosper” that helped me immensely. There was never any question whether I would graduate. I majored in Business. The only reason I know it is that it’s printed on my diploma in big letters. My brother told me neither of my parents could come to my graduation because they had both died of heart attacks. I didn’t care. Then, I found out my brother had lied. I still didn’t care. My heart was hardened. It felt good to harbor a grudge, especially toward my mother. That Saturday breakfast had grown into a dagger that stabbed me in the heart at the sight of scrambled eggs and French toast.
So, I moved to San Francisco. Surprisngly, I became a successful songwriter. My two biggest hits were written for Donovan: “Electrical Banana” and “Hurdy Gurdy Man.” There are 100s more, ranging from Melanie’s “Roller Skate Song” to Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs, “Wooly Bully.”
Now, I am rich. I live in the redwoods. I have a girlfriend who makes me scrambled eggs and French toast every Saturday morning.
Mom, I still hate you. Make me happy. Die.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
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